


Still Ashes

by filthinbeau



Category: KAT-TUN (Band)
Genre: Fic Exchange, Implied Relationships, Introspection, M/M, Romance, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2249793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthinbeau/pseuds/filthinbeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was easier to forget and lose all sense of self when there's nothing but an endless region of space and time and they're leaning on each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soracia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soracia/gifts).



> Dear Kagi, I’m sorry if this is not what you would love to have but I tried my best to stay away from your list of dislikes ;D. And it was pretty short since this one is the back-up story, I just couldn’t finish the original one I wrote for you. Nevertheless, hope you’ll enjoy ;)

 

_It was easier to forget and lose all sense of self when there's nothing but an endless region of space and time and they're leaning on each other._

There was a moment of silence, between them only air, laced with the unique smell of their presence. They had done this before, countless times. Situations sometimes called for them to come together after curfew, to hole up in his studio, with his cigarette, in his bed, quietly discussing the events that led to this retreat into the comfort of his home, his world, with his cigarette and the one person he trusted more than his mentor. It was there flexed in their bones, masqueraded by the sway to their bodies, of needing to escape.

His head lulls to the side, eyes drawn to the shape of the profile of his companion. Their feet tangled together. Deft fingers set the cigarette aside for a moment so he could lie on his side, studying what he considered to be a work of art. An amused smile crossed the other’s lips, a question without words passed between them. Mumbled words regarding how his skin, his bone structure, his eyes fascinated the artist fell from his lips without prompting.

He turns over again, silently retrieving the cigar, taking a long drag before passing it to his companion. They blow smoke at the ceiling together. Their breath mingled on its upward journey. Their hands fumble together, eventually managing to place the smoky thingy down on the floor. Their efforts to remove inflammatory objects from the bed were a success. The artist breathed against his neck, where his nose had found shelter, arms winding around him pleasantly. 

For a moment they are still, lying there, bodies meshing as they took a moment to remove themselves from the world. Here they were not subject to judgment, not that that had ever stopped them anyway, or scorn. Here they were two men, lying together, half undressed, smoking tears of the nicotine until they cough their words, and pretending they were the only people in the world. He murmurs his name against his neck, lips brushing ever so softly against the warm skin of his companion. He shifted in the artist’s grasp, moving so their eyes can lock together, deep brown and hazel, boring into each other with intent and passion.

They know how it ends. They have been here before. They don’t mind, they don’t need to mind because in these moments they are the only people in the world. Forget the world, in this secluded place, their sanctuary. And when they have to return to society, when the sunlight filters in through his window, lighting the floor in the soft lines of sun as it slowly rises, a soft breeze rustling his curtains, he knows that all must be forgotten if they are to succeed. But just not now.

His eyes fall closed without his consent, and they drag back open much slower than he would like, but he supposed that was part of what made it so appealing, this thing they smoked together in his room away from the world and prying eyes. A normal cigar but the effects on par as a drug. Just like a drug. A smile tickles his lips. He leans forward, intent, dedicated to his decision now because who is going to tell him to stop? Certainly not his companion who is more than willing to engage in just about everything. Not the world. Not God. Their lips touch. It’s soft and innocent, a testing of limit and boundary already explored.

Relationships were never his strong point. The star’s mind is too fickle. He can’t commit when his mind, his body, his soul, runs on curiousity and exploration. What occurs between them. There’s a mutual understanding. Nothing serious except their friendship. That is solid. Where their hands wander when they spend the evenings together in his smoke filled studio does not have any effect on their relationship outside of such actions. This is why nights like this are rare, few and far between because they both know that if they’re more regular, something might change and neither of them can afford that, a change. They are comfortable. What they have is special. What they have might even be love, but of course, things like that can never be said by either of them.

Soft touches, gentle kisses, the shedding of what little clothing they possessed. The artist's skin is beautifully tanned and, paired with his dark eyes and hair, provides a warm contrast against the star's outstanding pale frame. It completes them. He finds himself enjoying this much more than he should. Perhaps it’s been too long since he would allowed himself to indulge in something like this, something more intimate than his curiousity allows. They seem to know each other, inside and out. Of course they do. They have known each other for years. They have mingled, they have mixed, they have lain in that bed countless times, touching, kissing, indulging, breathing together countless times. What makes this any different? And perhaps it isn’t different, but it feels different. 

The artist pushed him on his back, firm hands soft on his shoulders, and he takes comfort in the fact that his companion, his friend, his sometimes more, knows every inch of his mind, even if he himself doesn’t. He’s his anchor. How could he be anything different? The artist’s fingers trace his cheekbones, his jaw, his shapely brow, awe bright in his eyes as the artist explores his insides with his fingers and tongue, to watch him quivering in painful delight.

Perhaps that too is what makes this relationship they have so special. For the star, he’s an anchor. But for him? What does he see when those warm eyes stare at him, study him, deconstruct his being? The artist told the star, he is as bright as the sun and even further away, just out of reach. And sometimes he gets this glimpse; the star comes down from the heavens to walk with him, to talk and to share, to be a part of him and somehow this star, this glorious producer of light has deemed him worthy of his attention, his awe. And perhaps that is why he can’t stay away. And the star replies, he could never delve into the depth of the artist's mind, so beguiling yet convolution. But he too, couldn't stay away.

Their lips press together, fingers lacing together as they drink in each other’s company. Their breath mingles, this time between them as their bodies find comfort and pleasure in each other, skin to skin, lip to lip, intimate and intense and they fall into old habits and nearly forgotten ways, winding down paths they can’t remember and can’t even begin to forget. It’s their, in the backs of their minds, waiting for days such as this, nights quiet and minds and bodies free to roam and do as they please, and perhaps this is what they are meant to do, what they mean to do.

And when they sleep it’s together, refusing to part because this moment, these moments, tender and few, are simply that, few and far between and sometimes the need for each other is far greater than any thoughts of what might happen in the future. They may come to regret it one day, but none of them will ever voice the opinion.

When the sun marks the ground, falls upon the bed and the cold ashes where it lays as they left it, the artist is already gone, the tangled sheets the only evidence that he had been there at all. Kazuya's mind is turned to other things. Never mind the fact he barely slept through the night and rose late, never mind the fact he took almost the whole night to run his fingers through his friend’s tangled locks with tender touches. Never mind. His fingers moved, fluttering beside him as he sketched, loose shirt hanging off his shoulders as he took up residence at his workbench, a bowl of fruit in front of him, picked through already. He blinked, head tipping ever so slightly at the sound of the bedclothes rustling. Ah. He smiles.

"Sleep. We got the rest of the day to just lie around, to forget the world.” Jin says, and a small smile appears on his face. Sincere, warm, and pure. And his eyes bearing the looks of beyond hoping for a world peace.

With the sunlight still dancing and drawing colourful patterns on the world, he closes his eyes again, as his face buried into the fluffiness of the pillow Kazuya dreams about a boat carrying him home again after a long, onerous journey. Just for this moment they would value every second. Because after all of this they will act as if nothing had happened, nothing at all. Because acknowledgement would ruin it, would ruin them. And neither of them can afford that.

 


End file.
